


Revel

by imperfectkreis



Category: Far Cry 3
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood Kink, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Face Slapping, Hair-pulling, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Internalized Homophobia, Knifeplay, M/M, Misogyny, Sex Under False Pretenses, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-03 23:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15829194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: Jason returns to his shack with blood under his nails. He tries to scrub it out. Pick it away with a sliver of reedy brush, but he only succeeds in stabbing himself, mixing his blood in with that of pirates. Contaminating the boundary meant to stand between.(Mind the tags, the consent is technically there, but extremely dubious)





	Revel

Jason knows he’s changing. Because the oppressive, wet heat of the Islands begins to feel like armor, coiling around his skin, buttressing him from the blood and ash and viscera that he submerges himself in to survive. A protective layer of water in the air, preventing him from being touched by it. Like he can peel away the deeds he commits in the light, in the dark, the moments in between, and shed them like a second skin.

Citra says he’s powerful. A warrior, that this has always been inside of him, waiting for the right moment to burst free from his chest, to scrape and claw his way to a new reality. A destiny. Here. A place he didn’t even know existed, before a few weeks ago.

Weeks. Not decades, not years, not months.

Weeks.

The little shack he’s commandeered has his makeshift base for the time being is a wretched, ruined thing. Holes in the thatched roof, old bloodstains from the last inhabitants baked into the dirt floor. The gas stove is broken, the tank dry. The mattress in the corner rotted through in places, the metal coils sticking through and stabbing his legs in the night. Jason already thinks he may have lice, or, fuck, something similar. He doesn’t know. All he knows is that his scalp itches like hell. And nothing that he does soothes the irritation.

He can’t go back to the cave with his friends to sleep. Not yet. Because he’ll hear the same chorus on repeat. He’s changed. Not the Jason that they know. They’re worried, so worried. He can see the fear in Liza’s eyes when she looks at him now, begging him to give up on Riley. He can see it in the way that Daisy flinches when he gets too close. She at least tries to hide it, retreating quickly behind her nerves of steel when she lets her terror slip. The competitor that she is: Never let them see you sweat. But she’s prepared to kill him. Jason knows that much. There’s a knife hidden inside her boot. She might think that he doesn’t know. But he’s seen how her hand flexes for it, when Jason staggers in her direction.

When the time comes, though, when they can’t afford to wait anymore, Liza will want Jason on that boat. When she asks, she pleads, tears in her eyes and water in her voice, he doesn’t know how he’ll answer her.

For now, the best he can do is keep them from asking. From assuming that they know better than he knows himself.

The truth is, he has no fucking clue anymore. But neither do they. It’s just not possible.

The night is unsafe for sleeping, predators stalking the jungle lowlands. The island is flush with corpses, bloated, rotting, an easy meal. But Jason is starting to understand the difference between a scavenger and a hunter, and the latter doesn’t remain satisfied with simplicity. They will come for him, prove their strength against his.

God. He’s so fucked up.

He sits on the edge of the mattress, tucking his head between his bent knees and trying to breathe, to shake the moisture out. He scrubbed his arms in the sea, granules of salt still cling to the fine hairs on his arms, where he sloshed away the evidence of what became of the group of pirates he encountered earlier. Their blood crawling up his arms, smeared across the tatau.

The pirates for the most part are disorganised now, without Vaas to bring them to heel. Jason couldn’t have anticipated how important Citra’s brother was to the stability of the island. That such a psychopath was the one keeping order. But he was. Jason is convinced now that the pirates are just as likely to kill him by accident, then with any sense of purpose. Once the drugs run out, maybe they’ll finally turn against each other, and leave him alone. But for the time being their stockpiles are still flush, and they’re skittishly tracking down sources of amusement. Hunting “Snow White” is chief among their games.

Sitting back, Jason leans against the mud-brick wall, extending his marked arm in front of his face, twisting it back to front, watching as the pattern etched there glimmers, fades. The dark ink shimmering in a way that shouldn’t be possible. Citra says it’s magic, that it flows through him now. Her magic, strumming across his veins.

It’s more likely that there’s a hole, somewhere in his brain. The loopy, dizzy high of Rook, settling between his nerves. Showing him visions of what is and isn’t possible, blurring the lines, cutting him off from realities that would cripple him. The truth of what he’s doing here, too unbearable to think about for too long. Forgetting helps to make him strong. God, so fucking strong. Because he doesn’t have to care. Just sink back into the lights, the dream, where fighting feeling like dancing, his knife between Vaas’ ribs.

Jason is going to die here.

But not today, not tonight, he’s too exhausted for the bothersome truth of his own mortality. He lays down on the shitty mattress, stinking of sweat and dirt and salt. Insects buzz through the trees, a constant hum, drowning out the things Jason can’t quite remember. That his brain can’t place into proper sequence. 

—

“Wake up, hermano,” a bitter laugh rings through the shack, barbs in Jason’s ears. A dream, a hallucination. Something between the fibers of reality that he wasn’t meant to see, materializing in his room. “WAKE THE FUCK UP.”

Jason starts awake, his heart racing, pounding in his chest, an unsteady throb, tightening until he’s sure that he’ll burst. That his own entrails will be splashed against his shirt for once, instead of those belonging to strangers. Wet and thick and warm. He presses a hand against his sternum, trying to ground himself to center. But the shaking just won’t stop. 

“Get over yourself,” the voice rumbles from the opposite corner of the shack, tucked in beside the blown-out stove. There’s no light, save for the tendrils of the moon through the empty window behind Jason’s head. But Jason can see him clearly. Vaas, dressed in white and battered cargo shorts, his strip of hair matted flat against his otherwise bare scalp, eyes bloodshot and bag-bitten, purple bruises spreading across his face. 

Vaas tilts his head back against the wall, showing Jason his throat. Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows, trying to get more air into his lungs. But his chest won’t expand quite right, his ribs won’t budge. He holds one hand against his side, where Jason thinks his knife went through, like holding the hole closed between his fingers will let him breathe, keep his life from slipping out.

“You don’t get out of this easy,” Vaas dips his head back down. Green eyes reflecting light like a cornered animal, showing his teeth like a threat. Jason thinks how strange it is, that their irises so closely match. “You think it’s so fucking easy, just be her pet. Woof, fucking woof. But let me tell you something. The treats get stale real fucking fast. You’ll realize soon enough that you’re chewing on her fucking shit.”

Jason can’t drag himself off the mattress, can’t chase away the apparition of the man who should be dead. He sits dumbstruck on the bed, watching as Vaas’ shoulders shift when he moves, the cotton of his shirt stretching across his chest. “But what the fuck do I know?” Vaas seethes, “not a fucking thing.”

They stare at each other in the dark, the shadows across their faces shifting as the sun comes up. Vaas shakes his head, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet. Jason watches him walk out, waiting for the dream to end. Waiting to be thrust back into the solid clutches of reality. But the break never comes.

—

Jason returns to his shack with blood under his nails. He tries to scrub it out. Pick it away with a sliver of reedy brush, but he only succeeds in stabbing himself, mixing his blood in with that of pirates. Contaminating the boundary meant to stand between. 

He falls asleep not long after, the ache of exertion giving way to a loose-limbed fog. He’s too exhausted to keep coherent, the tide of sleep dragging him under, letting the blur cloud his vision. Letting the visions sink back into his pores.

An hour, maybe, before the ghost is in his room again, pacing back and forth, repacking the dirt that has come loose under his boots. The white of his shirt is stained, blood having seeped through the bandages. Vaas still can’t breathe right, short, pathetic wheezes that grow tighter with his anger. “Replace me. She thinks that I’m fucking disposable. Plastic wrap to shove down her throat. Fucking choke on it. That bitch. THAT FUCKING BITCH.” 

Vaas grabs the edges of the busted oven, tearing until the rusted metal cuts his hands, trying to rip it away from the wall, break it into pieces. The stovetop gives way from the base, and so does Vaas’ wound, fresh blood blooming through his shirt, a patch starting from under his arm, spreading almost to his hip.

The metal creaks as it comes loose, the bulk of the oven remaining in place as the top section tears away. Jason watches as Vaas slams it against the wall. Metal on brick, a dull, ringing noise echoing through the tiny room. Every dent like a gunshot. Jason doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t know what this is supposed to mean. How he’s supposed to weave these threads together.

He thinks, maybe, Vaas has finally tired himself out when the screaming stops. Instead, the wheezing starts up again, choked, hacking sobs. The shack smells like copper. More strongly than it should. Jason realizes then that he’s covered his mouth and nose with both his hands. It’s not Vaas that he smells.

Vaas drops the stovetop to the floor, clattering against the floor. He laughs and laughs and fucking laughs. Until he screams again. 

“You’re more fucked up then I thought,” he says, his fit coming to a close, reeling and barely keeping his feet, he sinks down into a crouch. “Dead inside. Or something? Can’t feel your face? Can’t feel a fucking thing? Fuck you. Fuck you,” the curses come out quiet.

Jason watches him stand up again and walk into the night. This disjointed haunting pushing out all of Jason’s other dreams.

—

Jason sits awake, watching the corner by the oven, waiting for the spirit to visit him.  
Though seeing Vaas provides no relief, no comfort, nothing approaching salvation. Jason doesn’t expect to be forgiven, absolution. What the fuck ever. He stays awake so long that his hands begin to shake. His organs trying to vibrate past his diaphragm, spill out from between his teeth.

Sleep hits him like a hammer to the skull, leaving him leaning back against the wall, feet spread out in front of him. And the sinking of the mattress on either side of his hips is an equally jarring, sudden rupture. Jason’s eyes fly open as a rough, dirty hand closes over his mouth.

“I want you to scream. But only when I say.” It’s Citra’s voice, but as if someone else is speaking through her vocal cords.

Jason’s eyes go wide, starting to thrash under Citra’s weight. The strange illusion weighing him down, pulling them both through the gaping maw in the floor. Vaas’ legs swung over Jason’s thighs, his full heft bearing down. Citra is...Vaas was shorter than Jason by several inches, but sinks him like cement. All thick corded muscle and weathered bones, calcified and reinforced.

“I’m not my sister,” she hovers her delicate hand over the bulge in Jason’s cargo pants, pressing down with the heel but nothing further. “You have a choice in this. But only one. Yes, or no.” She rolls her hips, grinding her pelvic bone against his crotch, the flap of her skirt riding up, exposing the apex of her thighs. Jason reaches out, runs his hands down the smooth, unblemished skin of her arms. She tilts her head, smiling, light eyes bright in the darkness of the shack. Her mouth slightly open, tongue between her teeth, she teases, “My cunt is better. Tighter. I’ll do the things she won’t lower herself to do. That’s why she always needed me.” Citra tangles her slim fingers in Jason’s hair, tugging until he hisses back. “That’s why she needs you.

“So,” she blinks, her eyes shifting darker, blue to green, arching her back to thrust her bare breasts close to his face. Tempting him to latch on to a dark nipple with his mouth, suck and tease and make her writhe in his lap. “Yes, or no?”

“Yes,” Jason chokes. He watches as she smiles, face breaking apart like foam against the stones. Every crash a condemnation, as Vaas bears down onto Jason’s cock. His hands dig in tight to Jason’s shoulders, clawing as he tries to push the head past his rim, stretching himself wide as Jason flounders.

Vaas grabs hold of the front of Jason’s hair again, slamming the back of his head hard against the wall. It only takes one strike for Jason to see stars. Vaas sinks down all the way, Jason now buried to the hilt.

“That’s it, that’s it,” Vaas sneers, his hand fisted tight in Jason’s hair. Dirty fingers and oil and grime. Stinging in Jason’s nostrils like hot coal as Vaas forces his head back, back, back. Gentle this time though, until they’re staring each other down. Eyes locked and breathing labored. Vaas brushes his blade against Jason’s throat, the metal cold. “Gonna be good for me, Snow White?” he bites out the title. Never liked it.

Jason doesn’t like it either, can’t understand fully the implications, why the pirates and privateers latched onto the name so suddenly and completely. What that might say about Jason, that he was so easily made a _princess_ through his acts of violence.

Too terrified to move, Jason locks his hands in place on Vaas’ hips. Doesn’t look away, watches silently as Vaas watches him. Sliding up and down his shaft, slick with lube and menacingly tight. Like Vaas is going to snap him in two if he steps out of line. If he resists. 

Vaas keeps the knife tight to the underside of Jason’s chin, scraping at the loose, patchy stubble that has started to grow back in. Jason can feel it, hear it, as the edge cuts across the hairs, close enough to slit his throat as Vaas cants his hips, unsteady, dangerous, in Jason’s lap.

Jason tries to close his eyes, tries to change the dream. To get Citra back. Because while she never asks, always takes, it’s easier in the end, to live with himself, if it’s her. She’s soft and fierce and beautiful and wants him. There is no reason for Jason to not want her.

Vaas’ knife presses firmly into his neck, breaking skin, a line of red against the steel.

“No checking out, hermano,” Vaas snarls, “I told you I’m not her. I want you here for _everything_.”

Jason can’t manage more than a strangled gasp, clawing at Vaas’ thick waist. All solid muscle and sharp angles. His bloodied shirt clings to Jason’s sweat-soaked tee as he grinds down, hard enough that both their teeth rattle in their skulls on every labored thrust.

Vaas has to let go of Jason’s hair to wrap his hand around his own cock, stroking too hard, too fast, punching Jason squarely in the stomach on each stroke, bearing down and swallowing him up, the knife still too close and too sharp. Both a threat and a promise.

“Gonna come for me?” Vaas growls, “gonna show me what my fucking sister is after, huh? Fucking huh? Aren’t you gonna fuck me? Aren’t you supposed to be a warrior?”

Jason can’t manage to say anything at all, just a wordless groan as Vaas’ body pulls tight, arching back and his come splashing onto Jason’s shirt in heavy stripes. His head thrown back and muscles taut, clamped down and holding until Jason shivers, his abdomen clenching hard as he comes into Vaas’ stretched out hole. 

Oh, god. Oh, god. What did he do? What kind of dream is this supposed to be?

Vaas gives him a slow, lazy smile, swinging his leg over and climbing off. He’s naked from the waist down, lube or come or something smeared on the insides of this thighs. And that detail is so vivid, so distinct, that Jason thinks that he might vomit. Because suddenly, everything about this feels too close, too real. That maybe this is something that has actually happened to him, rather than another vision, intended to make him stronger, somehow.

Jason tries to suck air down in his lungs, touching his hand to his neck. It comes away wet. “Oh, god,” he slurs, “oh god. This isn’t happening, it’s not happening.”

Turning sharply, Vaas stalks back towards him. He climbs onto the mattress, knees on either side of Jason’s legs. He rubs his hand between his thighs, collecting evidence of what they did. Smearing his filthy hand across Jason’s face, he says, “This isn’t one of your little hallucinations, hermano. That was your cock up my ass. That was me giving it to you better than you’ve ever had before,” he shows his teeth. “Try and keep the fuck up. Or something stronger, fiercer, is gonna eat you alive.” He slaps Jason hard across the face. 

Jason bites down on his tongue, sobbing as copper fills his mouth. This isn’t. It’s not. He tries to cover his face with his hands, hoping that when he opens his eyes again, he’ll be himself. He’ll be alone. Counting down in his head from ten, he pulls his hands down from his eyes. Nothing but the empty little hut meets his gaze. But there’s still the broken stove, the wet patch on his shirt.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always very much appreciated!


End file.
